


Theoretical Heroes

by QueenBuzzle



Series: Insomnia Sweets [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Major AU, Mentions of Major Character Death, mentions of gore, minor OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:39:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBuzzle/pseuds/QueenBuzzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>{"The thing is, Dean…there are three types of heroes."}<br/>In which Dean meets Harry in a tiny little bakery called Insomnia while working a case.<br/>{"There are True Heroes, the ones who could be heroes, maybe, but they don’t stand out enough—even though they do good things—to be noticed. They don’t have ulterior motives because they can’t, because nobody’s watching them anyways. There are Fake Heroes, the ones who only do good things for the attention they receive in return. And then there are Theoretical Heroes."}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part the First: Planets of an Unidentifiable Origin

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of unfocused ramble-y three-shot...I wanted to write a story detailing how Dean became attracted to someone of like mind to himself...Harry fit the bill. This isn't meant to be about the case, it's meant to be about the two of them.

**_Part the First: Planets of an Unidentifiable Origin_ **

                Insomnia Sweets Café and Bakery was a cutesy little building on the outskirts of a small Michigan town. Painted a happy yellow color with orange shutters, it certainly was not the first place that Dean Winchester would think of a Hunter being.

                “Used to come here every morning,” said the gruff man beside him proudly, patting his belly. The signs outside Insomnia Sweets were the old-fashioned diner sorts, boasting “Pumpkin Pie, Made Fresh Each Morning” and “Hot Apple Cider, Fresh off the Mill” and “World’s Best Cupcakes”. 

                “What made you stop?” Dean asked as they approached, shooting a sidelong glance at the weary Hunter. He wondered if that would be him in a few years, twitchy and a little paranoid, telling stories of his old life to younger, fresher Hunters.

                The man didn’t respond.

                The sign hanging from the door said “ _Closed :(”,_ but Russell Davis tried the door anyway. It was unlocked, and they surged in.

                While the outside was sunshine yellow, the inside definitely lived up to the Insomnia title. It was dark, but not in a bad way, the ceiling painted purple with a smattering of white paint across it, looking like so many little stars and galaxies. Small model planets hung from the ceiling, but none Dean had ever seen before. There were small tables with cozy black, purple, or blue armchairs around them.

                The front desk had a huge glass display, which was mostly empty at this early hour. On one side of the display, a man worked quietly, piping icing onto a small army of cupcakes. He was behind a glass wall which allowed customers to watch but not contaminate. On the other side was the register.

                The man looked up as they came in, wiping his face and leaving a streak of blue frosting.

                “Uh—sorry? We’re not open just yet?”

                He was looking behind them. Dean turned, noting the man in the armchair near the door, slumped over the table, asleep. He was too skinny, too small, his pink lips parted gently and his sooty lashes brushing his cheeks. He was wearing a white _Insomnia Sweets_ apron over a hoodie and jeans, flour smudged on his face.

                “That’s Jem, the owner,” Russell said, nodding to the man. “Doesn’t look like much, but he’s a right feisty little thing.”

                “Sir?” said the man behind the counter. “I’m sorry, we’re not open…”

                “I heard ya the first time, kid, but I’m a friend of Jem’s.”

                The worker looked uncertainly at Jem again, but the man did nothing more than let out a little puff of air and turn his head sleepily.

                “I’d wake him and ask him, but… this is the first he’s slept in days,” the worker murmured, biting his lip. “I suppose you can stay. We don’t start serving till nine though.”

                It was eight fifteen. Dean started to say that they should just get breakfast elsewhere, but Russell was already moving towards a table at the back. It was far enough away that the worker and Jem wouldn’t be able to overhear them.

                They settled into the armchairs, Dean making sure his back wasn’t to the room, and Russell leaned forward and began talking immediately.

                “I’ve heard—an’ don’t get on me about gossip, now—I’ve heard that there’s some deaths happenin’ ‘round here, but they’ve not been in the papers, have they? Now naturally, that sent my alarms off right quick, so I looked into it, but nobody’d ever heard about these people who’ve supposedly been dyin’! Then one day, I wake up, and I don’t remember much about my case, not till I came ‘round my Hunter’s journal and saw the last entry!”

                Russell looked wild-eyed and excited, and he took out the journal from his jacket and opened it to a bookmarked page, sliding it across to Dean.

_September 14, 2006_

_I went off to the police station today to get information on the deaths that’ve been happening lately, but the police don’t know what I’m on about. At first I thought it was because I didn’t have high enough clearance, so I pulled my badge and they still insisted there’d been no deaths._

_After asking around town, I have suspicions that whatever’s been doing it has the ability to erase short-term memories. Nobody remembers the deaths, but there’s been at least fifteen of them by my count._

_I remembered hearing the name Crabbe dropped from some people early in my investigation, before the memory of the deaths somehow disappeared. After some research, I learned that there’s an old manor outside of town that was owned by the Crabbes—might still be._

_I guess that’s where I’m headed next._

_September 15, 2006_

_I woke up today not remembering anything about my case. I don’t remember going to the Crabbe Manor. According to previous entries, I’m investigating a string of fifteen or so murders, but I don’t remember any of the information except for what’s written down here._

_The last thing I did yesterday that I remember is close this journal, then there’s a blank, and then I came home to sleep. That means between closing my journal and sleeping, I did something that got my memory erased._

_I assume it has something to do with the Crabbe Manor._

_September 15, 2006 (Later)_

_I went to the Crabbe Manor. I think?_

_It happened again. I don’t remember it happening before, but the journal says it did. I don’t remember being at the Crabbe Manor, or approaching it, or deciding to go._

_There’s been another death since last night, but the one person who said something about it no longer remembered when I asked her, and I no longer remember her name._

_Crabbe Manor definitely has something to do with the case. I won’t go there again. I need some more insight on the case. Maybe it’s time to call in help._

_September 16, 2006_

_Bobby Singer was my first contact, but he says he’s no longer on active duty except for rare exceptions. He’s simply a research guy now. I have him researching what could be causing this, but so far, no clues._

_He recommended the Winchester boys. Now, I remember John Winchester. If his boys are anything like him, they can solve this case right easy._

_There’s two of them, a Sam and a Dean, but Sam is out of commission according to Bobby, so Dean will have to do. I’ll call him today._

                Dean nodded. Russell had contacted him late on the sixteenth and he’d nearly hung up, but the case intrigued him. Since Sam was MIA (well, not exactly _missing,_ since they knew where he was), he had to do it himself, but that was okay.

                He pursed his lips, flipping the journal closed and taking out a small notepad and pen. “So, what do you remember about the Crabbe Manor, Russell?”

                “Not much,” the man admitted. “Just skulkin’ ‘round it, right creepy old place. Not like in the movies, there’s no cobwebs or anythin’—just too perfect, the grass cut just so, not a single bit a rust on them old gates, no chipped paint, nothin’, even though nobody’s lived there in years.”

                Dean nodded his head again, scratching that down. “What about groundkeepers? Housekeepers? Is it possible they’re keeping it up even though there aren’t any tenants?”

                “I’m telling ya, boy,” Russell eyed Dean. “Them gates ‘aven’t been opened since god knows when. If there’s a groundskeeper or a housekeeper, ain’t nobody seen ‘em in all these years.”

                Dean saw Jem heading toward them and straightened up, not wanting to seem suspicious.

                He eyed the owner, making a slow sweep up his body. The man couldn’t be more than nineteen, there was no way this was the owner—especially if Russell had been “coming here for years”. He was probably five foot four, wearing skinny jeans and an overlarge hoody that did nothing to hide his thinness. His black hair was messy, pink lips pouty, and skin porcelain, but his wide green eyes were bright.

                He carried in his hand a tray with a few mugs on it and, in the other, a pitcher.

                “Hello, boys!” he chirped, setting the tray down and setting out two mugs. “Welcome to Insomnia Sweets! I’m Jem, would you like some hot cider?”

                “Sure,” Dean said, and Russell nodded. Dean cocked his lips at the boy. “You’re the owner, then?”

                “That’s me,” Jem confirmed, pouring the hot cider into Dean’s oversized mug. “I know, I look young. I swear, I’m twenty-six.”

                “ _No_ ,” Dean laughed, disbelievingly.

                “Yep,” Jem popped the ‘p’, grinning. “Started this little shop up seven years ago now, back then it was just me, now I’ve got a couple of employees.”

                “Still just as much of an insomniac?” Russell asked, sipping on his cider. Dean did the same, eyes fluttering. It was _really_ good, warming him from the inside out. The spice was just right.

                “Oh yeah. Got a good few hours of sleep today! Hunched over that table up there, but hey, I’ll take it,” Jem laughed, settling his hand on Russell shoulder with a smile. “How are you, Mr. Davis? I haven’t seen you around in a while.”

                “I traveled a bit,” Russell shrugged, quirking a smile. Dean remembered suddenly that Russell had helped when he and Sam had released all of the demons from the Demon Gate a few years back. “Just doin’ business, you know?”

                Jem’s eyes flickered between Dean and Russell, and Russell nodded. “Bring you boys some pie, and you can tell me about any fun things you… _done_ lately?”

                “You know it,” Russell grinned.

                Jem carried his tray off, and Dean looked at Russell with narrowed eyes.

                “He _knows_?”

                “That’s why I used to come here,” Russell chuckled. “That boy’s got secrets of his own, I’ll tell you that. No way ‘is real name is Jem.”

                Before Dean could ask any more questions, Jem was back. He had a half a pumpkin pie, a mug of cider, some plates and some forks.

                Jem settled down in the chair next to Dean, no longer wearing his _Insomnia Sweets_ apron, and curled his knees up to his chest. The action made him look, impossibly, smaller, as did his small hands cradling the large mug of cider.

                “Alright, I’m ready.”

                As Russell entertained Jem with stories of his time Hunting, Dean just watched. He understood what Russ meant about Jem having secrets. The boy had a smile on those pretty little lips, but it didn’t meet his eyes, which were glazed over slightly like he was remembering something he didn’t particularly want to. Maybe something that contributed to his insomnia. But the boy was relaxed, and the more Russ regaled him with tales of Hunting, the further he relaxed, until Dean was sure he’d need to catch the empty cider mug lest it fall and shatter when the boy fell asleep.

                But he didn’t. When he was completely relaxed, he leaned forward and began eating the last piece of pumpkin pie quietly, and when the slice was half gone, he looked up and smiled.

                “I always did like listening to your stories. You’d think hearing about you killing things would make me less apt to sleep, but it relaxes me.”

                “Maybe _you_ should take up Hunting,” Russell snickered.

                Jem actually laughed. It was short and choked, but it was a laugh. “No, that’s not for me. I don’t—fight—anymore.”

                He broke off hesitatingly, like he wasn’t sure if he should continue, and mouthed around his fork for a moment before continuing.

                “If you boys are looking into Crabbe Manor…just—be careful. Things aren’t the way they used to be.”

                And then he was gone, up and out of his chair like he’d not just been half-asleep listening to demon hunts and salt-‘n’-burn stories. He cleared their table, disappearing back toward the front.

Dean turned to Russ, opening his mouth, but Russ shook his head.

“Now, I know what you’re gonna say, boy, but you listen to me: Jem’s a good kid, he’d never be caught up in a mess like this. ‘Specially not as the one _causing_ it, so you leave him be.”

 

“Kingsley, _listen_ to me! You really need to send someone out here!”

“Harry, I’m sorry, there’s just not enough evidence.”

                “There’s a _reason_ for that, dammit, they’re _obliviating_ everyone who knows anything!”

                “Be that as it may—”

                “If you don’t send someone out, I’m going in by myself,” Harry warned, pursing his lips.

                “I just don’t think it wise to go messing in the affairs of the Crabbes, especially when it’s just a few muggles they’re bothing.”

                “ _Kingsley!_ They’re not just _bothering_ muggles, they’re _killing_ them! And even if you don’t think it wise, surely this requires at least a little attention?”

                The tall, dark-skinned man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sank into his chair, eyes closed, and muttered tensely, “Harry, you haven’t been here. You don’t know…”

                “Then _tell_ me.”

                “You said you didn’t want to be a part of this world anymore, and I’ve respected that, but I think it’s time you come home—join the Aurors, help us eradicate the crime circles that have been popping up daily since the Azkaban breakout in 2000.”

                “Insomnia Sweets _is_ my home, Kingsley, I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving just because your Aurors can’t deal with this. The Crabbes are your problem, not the American Ministry’s, but if you insist on ignoring them, I’ll go to them instead. I know how much you want their heads mounted above your mantle.”

                “I’ll send a team,” Kingsley snapped. “God dammit, Potter, the war’s been over for almost nine years and you still get your way with everything.”

                Harry gnashed his teeth together, refusing to let Kingsley get a rise from him, and murmured owlishly, “Not _everything,_ Kingsley.”

                _My happily ever after, for one,_ he thought, closing his eyes. Even after all these years, Ginny Weasley’s death still contributed the most to his insomnia. The thought of her body splayed out, the long, brutal wound that went from just under her chin all the way down to her abdomen, like someone had stabbed her and dragged the knife… It’d only been days since Ginny had said she wanted to try for a baby, told him that their age didn’t matter. And someone had ruined it, ruined it all, because nobody could let him be happy for once.

                Even after everything he’d done for the world, he still wasn’t allowed to be happy.

                “I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t—” Kingsley stood back up, moving toward the fire again. Harry shook his head, scowling, pulling out of the fire. Kingsley was cursing himself as the flames died down.

                Kingsley Shacklebolt was one of the few people who knew where he was. After the war, Harry had tried to live his life out in England—muggle London, and then Hogsmeade, and then Ottery St. Catchpole, where Ginny had been murdered. After Ginny, he couldn’t take it anymore—he was quite famous for the gigantic meltdown he’d had, and it had garnered him quite a bit of sympathy. He’d packed his things and sent them ahead to a flat (“apartment”) he’d rented in New York.

                Even if people came looking for him, it would be difficult for them to find him. He went by a new name—James Whitmore, owner of Insomnia Sweets Café and Bakery. He didn’t even look the same anymore. Severus Snape had given him a potion that would randomize his potential genes. Now he looked quite a bit more like his mother, with his father’s coloring and his mother’s eyes. He was her stature, had her build, his face was her elfin, pointy one. Even his lips were hers.

                He didn’t look like Harry Potter. Not unless you were _trying_ to make the connection.

                It wasn’t that he was hiding. It was that he was done with that world. He hadn’t used magic, offensive or defensive, in years. The only thing he did was use the Floo. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any of his adoptive family in that long, either, nor had any attempt at contact been made.

                He’d been made to carry the weight of the world on his shoulder for that world for much too long without any repayment of that debt. He didn’t want to live there anymore, he didn’t want to be a part of it. And if that meant moving to a tiny town in Michigan, starting up a bakery, changing his name and appearance, and even associating with _Hunters,_ that was fine.

                (He just hoped it wasn’t all for nothing. If he’d known the Crabbe family had a manor here, he’d have passed the sleepy little town right on by.)

 

                “Find anything?”

                On the other end of the line, Bobby grunted, as if he couldn’t be assed to answer. Then, in nearly the same tone, “I ain’t got no _Hunter’s Almanac,_ boy, this is gonna take some time.”

                Dean snorted. “Hard to believe you’ve found _zip._ You’ve known about the case for three whole days, surely you have some idea?”

                The silence on the other end was deafening, and then Bobby sighed. Dean pictured the portly old Hunter taking his much-loved cap off, wiping his face with the back of his hand and replacing it.

                “Yeah, but it ain’t good news, so don’t get yer hopes up. I got this journal from a kid a while back, who got it from his grandpa’s attic. It’s a Hunter’s Journal, real interesting like, but mostly it talks about things I ain’t never heard of before. Hinkypunks, Grindylows, the like.”

                “And you’re sure he’s not just off his rocker?” Dean demanded, eyebrows raising high. He turned into a motel parking lot. It was more rundown than most, and empty save for one other car, but he’d take it. “Takin’ some happy pills?”

                “Well,” Bobby said, in a tone that made the single word into an entire confirmation, like ‘ _well, between you and I, I’d say it’s highly likely…’_ “Thing is, he mentioned one thing in there that would explain it.”

                “Don’t leave me hanging, Bobby.”

                “He called ‘em Wizards. Said they could do magic, and lived in a world almost entirely separate from ours. Didn’t like mingling with us, much. But he said there was a faction…called it the ‘Dark’ Wizards…who didn’t like ‘muggles’. Muggles seem to be nonmagical folk, you know, and these ‘Dark’ idjits wanted to either kill us all or control us…but a man called Albus put a stop to it by killing their leader…”

                Dean sat in the Impala, eying his room’s door, frowning. “Okay, but what does that have to do with this case?”

                “I’m getting’ there, boy. These ‘Wizards’,” Bobby’s tone was dubious, “use magic spells, and one of them was called ‘obliviate’, which is apparently a memory erasing spell. They apparently have entire teams trained to ‘obliviate’ muggles, to keep their world secret.”

                “If they want their world so secret, how did this journal manage to slip through?” Dean asked, doubtfully.

                “That’s what don’t quite make sense,” Bobby agreed. “The grandson had a look about him, like he was afraid to touch the journal let alone read it. And the journal seems to be too old to be just forty or fifty years old, I’d say it was more likely the kid’s great-grandfather’s.”

                Dean rubbed his forehead irritably. He missed good old salt-‘n’-burns. He missed having a fucking great researcher at his side 24/7.

                He cut that thought off immediately, because it wouldn’t lead anywhere good.

                “Alright, thanks Bobby. Call me when you have any leads.”

                This was shaping up to be a beautiful case

                (Yeah, right.)

                It’d been three months since Sam and Adam were trapped in the Cage, and Dean would regret that day for the rest of his life. He should have never allowed it to happen.

                Inside the room, Dean swirled and punched a wall. Then he reigned himself in, because it was too early in the case to let himself go like that. He put up a map and found some red pins in the bottom of his duffel bag.

                “So the sixteen victims are of unknown name, origin, face, age… but we know where they died,” Dean told the room. He began pushing the pins into the map. “None of them lived in this town—in fact, it seemed they’d been drawn here specifically for the murder, and the only reason anyone knew they were dead was because the bodies were left out in the open.”

                The first murder had happened not five feet outside of the Crabbe Manor’s kissing gates. That’s why the name was often dropped, before all memories had gone missing. Then they got further and further away from Crabbe Manor, all through the middle of town. The last one had taken place right on the edge of town.

                “I don’t _get it!_ There’s no motive!” Dean snarled, slamming the remaining pins onto the table and turning around. “There’s no rhyme or reason to it. How can I solve a murder when all I know is that the victim didn’t live around here? There’s no body to examine, no evidence, nobody _knows_ them, hell, I don’t even know what they look like!”

                Dean turned back to the wall with the map. He looked closer, eying the pins suspiciously. They were laid out in too orderly a fashion for it to be correct. In fact—they created two parallel lines.

                The first eight were laid in a straight, diagonal line from Crabbe Manor to the center of town. Then the next pin was directly above the one in the center, and the following seven ran parallel to the first line, all the way to the opposite edge of town.

                 “There is no such thing as a coincidence,” Dean whispered, pulling out some thread. He wrapped it around each pin, in order.

                When he was finished, it looked like your average zig-zag. He rolled his eyes and turned away.

                “Of course it couldn’t have been that easy.”


	2. Part the Second: The Lightning Bolt on the Map

**_Part the Second: The Lightning Bolt on the Map_ **

                Dean found himself, inexplicably, in Insomnia Sweets the following morning.

                It was an atmosphere he liked. Dark, like a bar, but not crowded, and nobody was pushing you to tell your secrets. It was cozy without being sleepy, warm without being stuffy, and friendly without being overbearing. It smelled sweet, but not cloyingly so. It was quiet, but not in the way that made his heart-rate rise and his palms sweat.

                The door was unlocked, again. Dean worried that someone would take advantage of that someday, and then berated himself for worrying about a shop he’d been into twice.

                Jem was behind the counter working on a new battalion of cupcakes, and merely smiled when Dean came in. He piped delicate, detailed flowers onto the tops of chocolate cupcakes, turning them into a garden as Dean watched. Masses of roses, lilies, and flowers Dean would never know the names of were churned out in minutes.

                “Where’d you learn to do that?” Dean wondered, sitting in the chair closest to the worktable. Jem smiled from behind the glass, but didn’t respond.

                After a while, Dean noticed Jem’s pattern. He’d apparently mixed up all his batters before he started, so he’d frost while there was something in the oven, and when he was done he’d rotate what was in the oven onto the cooling rack and what was on the cooling rack into the display case (in case of pies and pastries) or onto the decorating table (in case of cakes and cookies). Then he’d refill the oven and the cycle would start again.

                It was methodical, and, to Dean, incredibly relaxing.

                “It’s therapeutic,” Jem said suddenly. Dean jumped a little, and Jem smiled. “I took it up as a method to relax me when I was a teenager, because I’d seen a lot of death in my time and I needed it. I never really stopped. My therapist back then urged me to do something else, said this wasn’t helping me relax enough, but I enjoyed it and it helped me.”

                Dean nodded. “I used to shoot cans to relax. This is more productive.”

                Jem gave a startled laugh, hand slipping. The rope he’d been piping around the outside of his cookie smeared.

                “Oh, god, sorry,” Dean gaped, jumping up, but Jem just continued laughing. He plopped his finger into his mouth, sucking off the tan-yellow icing, and then turned to wash his hands.

                “That’s the thing,” he said as he moved to continue his piping. “I love this because, no matter how ugly the cookie looks, it’s still edible. A piping screw-up isn’t going to detract from the taste of the cookie.”

                Dean watched Jem scrape the frosting off.

                “I also like it because you can always start again.”

                Dean smiled slowly, tilting his head to watch Jem work. He loved it when people were passionate about what they did, and he wished that he held the same happy feeling toward his job as Jem did.

                _You can always start again,_ Jem said. Dean wished it was a universal truth. He wished he could pause, rewind, and fix what’d happened to Sam and Adam.

                The thing is, there was really no way to save both of them. Dean had accepted that, or he thought he had, but as the days drew on, it got harder and harder, the ‘what ifs’ coalescing in his mind until he couldn’t bear it anymore.

                If he’d refused to let Sam go through with his plan, either he or Adam would be dead and the apocalypse would have begun. The survivor would be a meat suit for the rest of his days, with no thoughts of his own.

                And, arguably, that was worse than what _had_ happened. But it didn’t make things better in Dean’s head, or his heart, and it wouldn’t, not ever. So when night fell, and Dean lay in some cheap-ass motel bed and couldn’t get his eyes to close, he didn’t blame himself. But he didn’t let himself off the hook, either.

                “You’re thinking awfully hard over there,” Jem commented lightly, not quite looking up from his cookies. This batch seemed to be based on tattoos—there was the nautical one, with the rope and the anchor, some barbed-wire ones, and the one he was currently working on was a vintage-looking rose wrapped up in tattered ribbon. “Penny for your thoughts?”

                Dean wanted to. But he couldn’t, not yet. Instead, his eyes caught the odd planets hanging from the ceiling, and he asked: “What’s with the planets?”

                Jem looked at them and frowned. “This entire shop, and the thing you ask about is the planets?”

                Dean hadn’t noticed anything else odd about the shop.

                “It’s a metaphor. Two sides of the same coin and all that. The outside of the shop is day, all bright and sunny, but the inside is night. Those planets are our solar system, or what they could have been, maybe, if things had been different.”

                “I don’t think you’ve interpreted that saying correctly,” Dean murmured, in a tone that Castiel may have used.

                “That’s what my therapist said,” Jem smiled. “Then she told me to take them down because they were an unhealthy reminder that I’m dwelling in the could-have-beens.”

                “That’s bullshit,” Dean laughed, surprising himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he wanted to laugh in the presence of anyone other than Sam, Cas, or Bobby.

                Jem grinned. “She’s probably right. But, I mean—here. Take out a coin.”

                Dean did as he was told, and Jem told him to flip it. “Heads,” he said.

                “Yeah, but it could have easily been tails, right?” Jem asked.

                “Well…yeah, I guess,” Dean nodded.

                Jem wiped his hands, coming out from behind the counter. He reached up under one of the sandy-colored planets. Dean recognized its place in the solar system and decided it was probably Earth.

                “If things had been different, Earth could easily have been barren,” he commented. Then he pointed out the window. “All those things out there—the people, the trees… if even one thing had changed at the beginning of time, they might be different. But we won’t know, not ever. And that’s just it, right? We won’t know. We might be better off for it, but we won’t know that, either. It’s an endless spiral of ignorance that we simply can’t help and it terrifies me, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

                Dean caught Jem’s eyes. The boy was puffed up, almost hysterical, his eyes wide as he spoke. When he went silent, Dean felt his throat go dry.

                He _recognized_ himself in the boy. It was terrifying and thrilling all at once. He wanted to rejoice, he wanted to say “It’s the sort of question that keeps you up at night, wondering if, if you’d made a slightly different choice, people you love would still be alive today.” He wanted to shake Jem’s hand, thank him for the insight into Dean’s own feelings. He wanted to…

                …hot damn, he wanted to kiss Jem.

                It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, he’d had it a lot, but never for men, and never this badly. His throat ached and his lips burned subsequently as if they would scorch right off if Jem didn’t come over here right this second and plant one on him. He felt a strange mixture of hollow and like he was completely solid for the first time, and it was dizzying.

                He made an aborted attempt to rise, murmuring, “I—”

                And then the moment was over. Jem broke eye contact, a flush working its way over his cheeks, and looked at the clock.

                “9:09. Want some cider?”

                And then they went back to perfect strangers.

 

                “Why is there a lightning bolt on your wall? Is it important?”

                Dean jumped and cursed, knocking the pile of newspaper he was reading onto the floor. “Cas! You need to stop doing that!”

                “What?”

                “That—thing!” Dean motioned with his hands, but Cas just cocked his head. He deflated, grumbling about angels under his breath. “What do you want?”

                “This hunt, Dean. You should not be involved. What is the lightning bolt for?”

                “Why shouldn’t I be involved?” Dean demanded. “Is this another stupid angel game?”

                “It’s not your fight. The lightning bolt, Dean. What is it for?”

                “Whose fight is it, then?” Dean snapped, standing and turning to the wall Cas was looking at. “What lightning bo—oh, oh, _lightning bolt!_ ” he shouted, doing a little jig.

                The pins weren’t making two parallel lines. They weren’t making a zig-zag, either. It was a lightning bolt.

                And what was more?

                The end of the lightning bolt was right in front of Insomnia Sweets. The last body had probably been found in the parking lot.

                “I could kiss you,” Dean laughed, eying the map. “I mean, I won’t, but—I could.”

                He could. If he wasn’t currently thinking about a green-eyed boy spouting off about two sides of the same coin, and aborted moves to kiss said boy.

                “It’s not your fight, Dean,” Castiel said, moving forward so that he was standing right next to Dean. He tilted his head and Dean realized a second too late that Cas was mimicking him. He straightened, turning to the baby angel.

                “It turned into my fight when people started getting murdered.”

                “You haven’t figured it out yet?” Cas asked, looking honestly confused. “Those people weren’t human. They don’t fall under your—jurisdiction.”

                Dean did a double-take. “So—the people at Crabbe Manor are Hunters?”

                “No.”

                “Okay…” Dean trailed off, narrowing his eyebrows. “What do you know, Castiel?”

                Cas turned his back on Dean, a movement that only the incredibly trusting and the impervious did. If Dean didn’t know better, he wouldn’t know which to describe Cas as.

                “There’s a reason it’s a secret. The last time it came out, there were—a lot of casualties.”

                “I’m not going to die, Cas,” Dean snorted.

                Cas turned to him with fury in his eyes. “It’s not _you_ I’m worried about, Dean.”

                “Who, then? The other humans? I won’t let anything happen to them.”

                “No. The other humans are the most dangerous ones in this mess,” the angel muttered, moving to rub his hair. It was such a human move that it confused Dean, coming from Cas.

                “I don’t get what you’re trying to tell me, Cas.”

                Castiel looked at him funny, then shook his head. “Dean, the Demons weren’t the only ones who gave powers to humans. Thousands of years ago, the Angels gave a select group of humans some of their blood. They called themselves Wizards, and your perception of magic comes from them.”

                Dean opened his mouth, eyes widening. So—Wizards _were_ real, then. “Cas—I don’t care if their magic comes from Angels or from Demons, if they’re killing people, I have to stop them.”

                “They’re only killing each other,” Castiel said. “No humans.”

                “They used to,” Dean responded, thinking about the journal Bobby had found. “Didn’t they?”

                Castiel gave a sad nod. “But only a small percentage of them. The majority was angry with that percentage, and put a stop to them both times. There was a war recently, a big one, with a lot of losses for the Wizards. This is…revenge, I suppose you could say, from the losing side.”

                “The Crabbes are Wizards,” Dean nodded. “They were on the…‘Dark side’, and the Dark side lost. So they’re taking revenge on good Wizards?”

                Castiel cocked his head. “Yes—and no. I think this is more of a warning to the leader of the so-called ‘good’ side. The lightning bolt, Dean. Where does it point?”

                Dean’s brows pulled together. He remembered, the day before, Russell telling him that Jem had secrets of his own. He remember Jem saying “I don’t—fight—anymore.”

                And, this morning, Jem had said it himself: “I’d seen a lot of death in my time.”

                “A—warning of what, exactly?” he asked, kind of choked, to Castiel.

                Cas looked for all the world like he knew about Jem, knew about Dean liking Jem. His eyes were heavy. “I don’t know.”

 

                Harry didn’t like the Aurors that Kingsley had sent. They were obviously fresh out of graduation, never seen the field. They still followed procedure down to a tee, which experienced Aurors didn’t do, because procedure was predictable and could—and would—get you killed.

                They were young. Too young to have fought in the war, which would make Harry dubious of anybody. One day, he hoped that he could look at people who were too young for the war and think of their potential and not their lack of experience. It was a habit, one he wanted broken, from wartime.

                “Mr. Potter,” said one Auror, stumbling over himself to shake Harry’s hand.

                “I’m unsure of why you’re calling me by that name,” Harry said, cocking an eyebrow. “My name is James Whitmore.”

                “But Minister Shacklebolt said—,” said the other Auror, protesting.

                “I don’t care what Minister Shacklebolt said. I’m just an ordinary, concerned citizen. My name is James Whitmore.”

                The two Aurors went silent. The taller one was angry, like he had a right to Harry’s name or, perhaps, time. The shorter one was calculating, but nodded once.

                “Okay, Mr. Whitmore. I—don’t pretend to understand your motives, but I won’t push you. You’re a hero. You don’t deserve that,” the calculating one said.

                _Hero, he says,_ Harry thought, breathing calmly. What he said was, “So you can handle the Crabbe Manor, right?”

                Though they looked happy and affirmative, Harry didn’t fool himself into believing that they could. Kingsley had sent cannon fodder, which would wind up dead in his parking lot. Just like the last boy.

                For the first time in years, his fingers itched to feel the wood of his wand underneath them, to feel the warm fire of his magic vibrating through his core. It shocked him, but not enough for him to show it.

                “I feel I should warn you that everyone who has come into contact with the Crabbes in the past few weeks is either dead or Obliviated,” Harry stated, moving to sit behind the glass wall, beginning to prep his icing bag. “I’m certain that you’ll end up the same. But you’re welcome to try.”

                “Thank you for your confidence, Mr. Whitmore,” said the tall Auror, scathingly.

                “I don’t give false hope anymore,” Harry said, a bit icily. The last time he had, his best friend had lost an arm.

                “I understand. Thank you, sir,” said the calculating Auror. He was quickly growing on Harry. Quick to accept, but not quick to agree, understanding but not allowing it to cloud his judgment. He may very well survive. He was what the Aurors needed, not these hot-tempered young Aurors who would certainly be dead within their first five missions.

                It was obvious Kingsley had underestimated the situation. It was obvious Dean Winchester didn’t know enough about the world to assess the situation. It was also obvious that Harry’s no-magic streak was probably going to come to an end as soon as his guilt caught up to him…

                ...ah, now.

                How could he just send two trainees off into Crabbe Manor by themselves, even if they _were_ sent by the Minister? They were going to lose their memories or—worse—their lives. He could _not_ allow that to happen.

 

                His wand was in a box in the top of his closet at home.

                The thrum of magic under his skin was better than he had imagined—it was a hurts-so-good sensation, an ache that just _relieved_ Harry’s tension. The pent up magic, now that the wand had “closed the circuit” so to speak, danced off his skin in purples and greens. The smell of magic was delightful, like lightning and storm-clouds and _clean._

                “Come on, sweet,” he told the wand, voice a little bit disappointed by how happy he was to have it back in his hand.

 

                “Are you kidding me?” Dean shouted, slamming his hand on his steering wheel. Insomnia Sweets’ sign was set to “ _Closed :(“,_ and the door, for once, was locked. Jem’s car was not in the parking lot. Castiel, beside him in the Impala, drew his brows together in confusion.

                “I have not made a joke?”

                “I’m not talking to you, Cas,” Dean sighed. He pulled out his phone and dialed Bobby’s familiar number, letting it ring.

                “Singer Salvage,” Bobby answered gruffly.

                “It’s me,” Dean said. “Listen, have you—?”

                “I got a hold of the grandson,” Bobby interrupted. “’is name’s Dudley Dursley, he brought the journal to me ‘cause he heard I liked the paranormal shit, and he hoped I could get a hold of his cousin Harry. Harry is, apparently, a Wizard. Dean, I think—”

                “Wizards are real, I know, Cas told me,” Dean’s turn to interrupt. “Is this Harry person available for contact? Because we could use a little help. We’re pretty sure that the owner of this bakery in town was the leader of the Light side of the war—,”

                “Second war,” Cas elaborated.

                “—of the second war, that is, and that the Crabbes want to get revenge on him, and now he’s gone and disappeared.”

                “So the Crabbes were a Dark family?” Bobby asked, sounding like he was flipping through the journal. “I already tried to contact Harry, but they told me that he had gone and disappeared about eight years ago or so.”

                “Who’s ‘they’?”

                “His friends,” Bobby said. “Two of ‘em, a girl and a boy, late twenties.”

                “Send them our way, we need the help,” Dean demanded. “Quickly. As quickly as possible.”

                “Dean, it’s not that easy, they’re in England!” Bobby protested.

                “Let me help,” Castiel said. “Give me their names.”

                “Cas wants their names.”

                “Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley,” Bobby said. Dean relayed the message quickly, and Cas looked surprised. He narrowed his eyes, and then disappeared.

                “He’s usin’ his angel mojo to grab them,” Dean told Bobby. “Listen—if…if I don’t call you within twenty-four hours, call me. I don’t…want to forget.”

                “Dean,” Bobby said, quietly.

                “No, you listen to me, Bobby,” Dean said. He was scared. Death he could handle, but his memories? He needed them. “If you have to call me…you need to tell me everything. About Sam, about everything. I don’t care how hard it is…I can’t forget, Bobby. I can’t.”

                Castiel appeared outside of the Impala. He had a tall, thick redhead with him and a shorter, wiry brunette. The redhead was missing an arm, but looked determined nonetheless.

                “Okay, Dean. I will.”

                “And Bobby?” Dean asked.

                “What, idjit?”

                “Just…” Dean hesitated. “If I forget…don’t tell me about Hunting.”

                There was silence on the other end of the line, and Dean thought Bobby had hung up. Then, “Balls. Yer puttin’ me in a tough spot, kid. I promise. I won’t tell you about Hunting.”

                “Thanks, Bobby. Bye.”

 

                When he stepped out of his Impala, Dean could see instantly that the two Cas had brought back with him were sizing him up. The redhead tilted his shoulders back, eying Dean like a threat. Belatedly, he remembered that there’d been a war.

                “So,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “Good Wizards, huh?”

                The girl didn’t look impressed or amused. “How did _you_ find out so much about Wizards?”

                “No time for that,” Dean rolled his eyes. “We’ve got someone to save. I think he was the leader of your side of the second war.”

                Both of them jolted like they’d been shocked, and the man started forward. “What’s his name?”

                “Jem Whitmore? We think it’s a fake name, though,” Dean added, noticing their disappointment. “Have you got something to tell me?”

                “The leader of the Light Side’s name is Harry Potter,” the girl said, quietly. “He disappeared about eight years ago now, we haven’t been able to contact him. His…fiancée…had just died, and we’ve been worried that he might have—” _killed himself,_ Dean thought. He nodded slowly.

                “Well, the guy that went missing owns that bakery right there,” he began, pointing to Insomnia Sweets. “Short, probably less than five-five, black hair, green eyes, pale skin.”

                “Scar?” Red asked. Dean eyed him. “A little lightning bolt, right here.” With his remaining hand, he touched his brow.

                “Lightning bolt,” Dean said, eyes fluttering. He’d never seen Jem’s brow, but with the lightning bolt on the wall, he was willing to be he did have one. “I don’t know. We won’t know if we don’t go to him.”

                “Okay,” Red said. “I’m Ron, by the way. But here’s how it’s going to work—you need to stay with ‘Mione or I the whole time. We’ve got spells in our world that will kill you immediately on contact, or boil your intestines, or render you blind, or…chop off your limbs.”

                “Good job you did of dodging that,” Dean noted, not liking the way he was being treated. “The fuck would I cower behind you when you obviously aren’t that great at keeping _yourself_ safe?”

                “That was different,” Ron snarled. He pointed to his arm socket. “You know what I did to lose that? Saved my brother’s life. Bloody Death Eater, that’s a Dark Wizard, sent a Severing Hex right at his neck. I jumped in the way.”

                Dean deflated, looking properly chastised. If only _he_ could have saved _his_ brother. “Alright. Got it. We should go, quickly.”

                He made to get in the car, but Hermione shook her head.

                “It’s faster this way,” she told him, offering her his arm. He hesitated and then took it.

                And regretted it.

                It was like being wrapped up by a boa constrictor, squeezed until the breath left his lungs and he couldn’t think for his brains dripping out his ear. His ribs ached. There was too much pressure—he was sure his ears had popped—and then they were outside of Crabbe Manor.

                The Kissing Gates were open.

                Hermione sucked in a breath and covered her nose. “It reeks,” she complained.

                “Dark Magic,” noted Ron, smiling grimly. “Takes you back to the good old days, eh, Hermione?”

                “I’d hardly call them _good,_ if you remember correctly we lost a lot of good people back then.”

                “I remember. I was trying to lighten the mood,” he grimaced. “Come on, then, it’s now or never.”

                Dean, Hermione, and Ron trekked up through the gates and through the yard. It was as primly cut as Russell had said it would be, not a grass out of place.

                “Oh my god,” Hermione squealed, turning her face. Dean followed her eyes and felt his gut clench.

                “Dead,” he said.

They walked over to the boy, taking in his wide-open eyes and his parted lips. He was probably nineteen, just building up that layer of muscle that men in their early twenties often had. He was wearing a dark red cloak with black trim over a black shirt and running pants. The cloak had some sort of insignia on it.

“An Auror,” Ron whispered, swallowing. He bent and closed the kid’s eyes. “I think I trained him.”

“Who?” Hermione whispered.

“Auror Moore. Nineteen. Just graduated. H-He was still using procedure,” Ron intoned, letting out a shaky breath. “He’s in full uniform. Why would Kingsley send out a trainee to look at Crabbe Manor?”

“I think the question you should be asking is ‘where’s his partner?’”

                Dean whirled, taking in the half-crazed woman behind him. She had a smudge of blood on her forehead and a wooden stick held pointed levelly at them. How she’d sneaked up on them was anyone’s guess.

                Ron and Hermione dropped into near-identical crouches, raising wooden stick of their own (wands?) and pointing them at her. Dean dropped behind them a second later, pulling a gun.

                “Eldora Crabbe,” Ron snapped. Dean didn’t want to know why Ron recognized her on sight.

                “Ooh, an ickle Weasley boy, which one are you? Mmm…missing an arm…that was my dear Diadora’s work, wasn’t it?” her voice was sickly sweet.

                “Where’s Auror Pirdue?” demanded Ron.

                “Oh, I’m sure he’s around somewhere,” Eldora laughed. “ _His_ family was on the right side during the war, you know, so I didn’t touch him. Well,” she moved her eyes to Auror Moore. “I didn’t touch _him_ either, of course.”

                “Where’s Jem?” Dean spoke up. The crazy Crabbe looked at him as if he were filth.

                “How dare you bring a muggle onto our property?” she shrieked, her wand raising the tiniest bit. “ _Avada—_ ”

                “ _Diffindo!_ ” Hermione shouted, and, with a small blast of red light, the hand Eldora was holding her wand in was sliced, and she lost grip of it. “ _Stupefy!_ ”

                “ _Levicorpus!_ ” added Ron, for good measure.

                The woman was swung upside down, frozen but for her eyes.

                “Come on, before they come after us,” Hermione whispered. She darted for the house, and Ron covered her back, like they’d done this a million times before. There was a blind spot, though, like they were missing a third person.

                Dean had a blind spot, too, and he didn’t want to think about what caused theirs.

                “You’re just going to leave her like that? You’re not going to finish her?” Dean demanded in a hiss as they entered the house.

                “She’s a _person,_ you can’t just talk about killing her like that,” Hermione berated. “She’ll be taken to Azkaban, our prison.”

                Dean remembered, for a moment, that the Crabbes and Hermione and Ron were the same species. He was hesitant about killing humans, why wouldn’t they be hesitant about killing Wizards? Then he shook his head.

                “They’ve been killing your people,” he told her. “Sixteen— _seventeen_ now.”

                “We’ve lost more,” Ron snapped. “Killing her won’t make her crimes okay. They won’t ever be okay.”

                The duo was heading toward a set of stairs that led down. Dean was hesitant to follow—you never wanted to corner yourself like that—but he figured they knew what they were doing.

                “Wahhhh!”

                The trio jumped, startled, and whirled to face the newcomer. It was a young man, slightly smaller than the first, in “full uniform.”

                “Where am I?” he pleaded, coming forward toward Ron. “I know you, where am I? Please!” he still looked vaguely frightened.

                “Auror Pirdue,” Ron said, calmly. “You’re going to be okay. I’m Auror Weasley, I was head of your training squad.”

                “I know, I know,” Pirdue whispered. “But I don’t know where I am.”

                “You’re at Crabbe Manor, Pirdue.”

                “Where’s Zach?”

                “Auror Moore has fallen in battle,” Ron told him. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

                Pirdue shook his head, looking like he was going to cry. “He told us—he told us but we didn’t listen, we should have listened, he knew this was going to happen!”

                “Who knew, Erik?” Ron asked. His voice was gentle.

                “Mr. Potter. Mr. Potter said that everyone who came here either died or lost their memories and-and now Zach is dead and I can’t remember coming here or-or graduating, I’ve graduated right? I’m in full uniform, I must’ve. Who sent me? Auror Weasley, why aren’t you in uniform?”

                Ron’s face was pale. Hermione laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly to Auror Pirdue.

                “You graduated a few months ago, Auror Pirdue. Auror Weasley isn’t on active duty right now. When did you see Mr. Potter?”

                “That’s right, Auror Weasley’s wife just had a baby,” Pirdue whispered. Dean was watching with wide, curious eyes. “Mr. Potter…he was at the bakery. Did you go to the bakery? He was frosting cupcakes. He said his name was Mr. Whitmore and we shouldn’t call him Mr. Potter, because that wasn’t his name anymore.”

                “So Jem is Harry,” Dean said. Hermione looked at him and nodded once, looking both hopeful and horrified. “But that means that Harry—Jem—is…here?”

                “Auror Pirdue,” Ron said, loudly. Pirdue, who’d been looking around with slightly glazed eyes, blinked owlishly and looked at him. “As your senior officer, I’m asking you to leave the Manor right now. As soon as you can, alert the Aurors that Mr. Potter is being held captive by the Crabbes, and get an entire squad sent.”

                “Yes, sir,” Pirdue turned to leave, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Auror Weasley, sir, sorry, but—isn’t Mr. Potter your brother?”

                “As good as,” Ron muttered under his breath, and Hermione’s hand tightened around his.

                “Keep moving,” Hermione whispered as Pirdue left, but Dean couldn’t get his head around things.

                “Jem is your brother?” he asked as they walked, looking at Ron.

                “Sort of,” Ron sighed, rubbing the stub where his left arm should have been. “He’s been my best friend for just short of sixteen years. He was set to marry my sister eight years ago, but—”

                _“He disappeared about eight years ago, now…”_

                Hermione kind of cried a little. “Nobody would leave Harry alone, not even after he finished the war and saved them all, they just had to ruin everything. A stray Dark Wizard caught Harry and Ginny—that was her name—as they were walking, they had just started trying for a baby and they were so happy. The Wizard got Ginny first and c-cut her down, and then went for Harry, but Ron…”

                _“I saved my brother life,”_ Ron had said. That’s how he’d lost his arm. Dean felt a little sick, but not nauseous, more like he was heart-sick.

                He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. It was easier that way.

               

                Downstairs was a dungeon.

                Dean had thought that dungeons were—well, that they were mostly just made-up clichés. But this one was dank, made of stone, and had prison cells just like you’d see in the movies.

                A few cells had living people in them—but the one on the end was dedicated only to decomposing bodies.

Figuring they’d be safer locked up, they didn’t release the living prisoners just yet.

                All sixteen of the bodies that had been found in town had disappeared shortly after the first sighting. Now Dean knew where they went and stared, sickened, at them all. There were men, women, of all ages and races.

                Ron or Hermione unlocked the cell with their wand and started looking through the bodies. They had a name for each face: “Emmaline, Dennis, Dedalus, Scrimgeour, Marcus Flint…” and on and on.

                Dean didn’t want to know why they knew the dead men’s faces. It hurt too much to think about, and he didn’t know how either of them were still as composed as they were.

                Finally, they got to the first one, which was still as fresh as though she’d been killed only a day ago instead of nearly three weeks ago.

                Hermione gave a shriek, jolting backward, and Dean barely caught her before she went on her ass. Ron turned away, giving a shaky sob.

                “Who is she?” Dean asked, not unkindly.

                The woman was short, with mousy brown hair and a big nose.

                “It can’t be, it just can’t,” Hermione responded, going over and cupping the woman’s face. She gave a little yell, like she couldn’t believe it, and then completely broke down. “Wake up, oh gods, Tonks, please wake up. You’ve a son, you can’t leave him, please!”

                “Mione,” Ron said, with such fondness that Dean realized that the wife who’d just had a baby was _Hermione._

                “She can’t leave Teddy,” Hermione said, lips wobbling. “She’s all he has.”

                “She already has,” Ron sighed, pulling her into his arms.

                “I-I-I didn’t think I’d have to see any more of my friends dead, not after the w-war,” Hermione cried, clutching at him. “Not after everything. Why do they still die, Ron? It’s over, it’s been over for so long, why are they still dying?”

                He kissed her hair and didn’t respond. He looked at Dean and Dean knew, then, that the redheaded man would do anything for the woman in his arms, and _had_ done just about everything. He wondered what secrets hid between the duo, and if they had anything to do with Jem’s.

                “Now what?” Dean asked, after what felt like an appropriate amount of time. He wouldn’t fool himself into thinking that they were finished mourning. He knew that you were never finished mourning.

                “When all else fails, draw them to yourself,” Ron said. Hermione gave a shaky laugh. “That was Harry’s philosophy,” Ron added.

                They went back up the stairs. There was nobody in the entry hall.

                Ron and Hermione started making too much noise, too much racket. The house shook on its foundations, the room flashed with bright colors and tinkling music, and the three of them just stood in the center of it all, back-to-back-to-back, waiting.

                The first one who came was named by Ron: “Diadora”. Then others: Vincent Sr., Emril, Sanjay, Lila, and then he didn’t know anymore. There were probably ten in all, all older than Dean, and he found he was completely inept at fighting Wizards. His gun, however, was able to get through their hastily-drawn shields, which Sanjay found out (it happened to be the _last_ thing he found out). Then the gun was torn from his hands when Lila screamed an unfamiliar word at him, “ _Expelliarmus”_ , and it arched across the room and landed with a _smack_ on the floor. He immediately jumped back when it fired.

                Then he was left woefully unarmed, because fuck you if he was going after those Wizards with just a knife.

                The sounds that Hermione Ron had made died away, leaving just the familiar sounds of the fight (and weird, Latin-like words).

                Dean was too busy trying to keep himself away from harm to notice when a fourth body joined them, filling in Ron and Hermione’s blind-spot as if he belonged there.

 

                The squad of Aurors Ron sent for arrived just as Dean watched the last Crabbe fall, bound and “stupefied”, to the floor.

                They were led by a tall black man who was definitely not in “full uniform”.

                “Oh Merlin,” the man said, looking around. “Thank the gods you lot are okay.”

                “No thanks to you!” Jem—Harry—spat, and Hermione looked torn between reprimanding him and agreeing with him. “I _warned_ you, Kingsley. What were you thinking, sending in two trainee Aurors?”

                “They weren’t trainees, they graduated,” the Kingsley man said.

                “They were still using procedure!” Harry shouted, the same comment Ron had made earlier.

                Kingsley looked properly chastised, like following procedure was the worst thing one could do. “I should have listened to you. Auror Grimshaw, Auror Rupert, please take the Crabbes back to the Ministry and book them for a trial. The rest of you, fan out and search the Manor.”

                “The bodies are in the basement,” Ron said.

                “Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” Kingsley said, turning his eyes on Jem. “It’s high time you come home, Harry.”

                “This _is_ my home,” Jem murmured. “Can you guarantee me that I can walk safely down the streets back in England? Can you guarantee I’ll be safe from paparazzi, witches who want my affection, people like the Crabbes who want revenge?”

                “No. But you’re not guaranteed that here, either.”

                “It’s a lot more of a guarantee here than it was there. Besides…this town doesn’t have the memories,” Jem said, turning away from Kingsley. “I expect your Aurors to keep quiet about my location.”

                “Of course,” Kingsley said.

                “Let’s go back to Insomnia,” Jem told Ron, Hermione, and Dean.

                The four of them turned then, away from Kingsley and the Aurors, and left. Dean wondered why there was such a sense of finality about it.


	3. Part the Third: The Relativity of Time and Heroes

**_Part the Third: The Relativity of Time and Heroes_ **

                When Jem got into Insomnia Sweets, he kept the sign as “ _Closed :(_ ” but left the door unlocked. Dean didn’t ask why. He’d seen what Wizards could do firsthand—if they wanted in, they would get in, locked door or not. He highly doubted Jem was worried about ‘muggles’.

                He settled into the chair closest to the glass wall with the worktable behind it. Hermione and Ron looked around the place with ill-concealed awe.

                “This is your shop, then, Harry?” Hermione asked quietly. She was eying the planets hanging from the ceiling, but with a single look at Ron, she closed her mouth and stopped herself from asking.

                “Jem,” Jem replied, moving behind the counter. He wiped a trickle of blood off his cheek, washed his hands, and set about preparing to open his shop.

                _Dedication,_ Dean wondered, _or therapy?_

                “What?”

                “I’m not Harry Potter anymore, Hermione. This is my life now. I’m James Whitmore, owner of Insomnia Sweets Café and Bakery.”

                “You can’t hide from your life, Ha—Jem,” Hermione commented wearily, eying him. “Have you moved on at all?”

                “I’m working on it,” Jem laughed. “These things take time.”

                “It’s been eight years,” Hermione said. Ron moved and sat next to Dean, not saying anything. They looked at each other and Dean felt an odd sense of camaraderie as Ron shook his head in disdain.

                “She’s always like this,” he whispered, so low it barely made a sound. “Stubborn prat. But I love her.”

                “Time is relative,” Jem stated with a shrug. “I’m not going to say I suffered more than you did—because everyone thinks their grief is worse than everyone else’s. But I don’t have the support structure to fall back on like you do.”

                “You could have it, if you came back,” Hermione pointed out.

                “I can’t go back, Hermione,” Jem said, warming his ovens up. He went about mixing some new batter, and within minutes his face and chest were covered in flower and cocoa powder and sugar. “Not now, maybe never. What happened there—I can’t deal with it, and I can’t look at the faces there, pitying me.”

                “Okay.”

                “Okay?” Jem looked at her, stopping his whisking, with a look of surprise.

                “Okay. I’m not saying it’s the best choice, but it’s obviously the right choice for you. I can’t stop that.” She turned and settled into the last armchair around the table Dean and Ron were at. “A lot’s changed since you’ve stopped talking to us, Jem.”

                Dean leaned back, wondering if he should go, but he wanted to talk to Jem before he left. And, besides, he was interested in this whole “good Wizard” thing.

                “How so?”

                “Hermione and I have a daughter now,” Ron stated excitedly. Jem raised his eyebrows, clearly shocked. “She’s three months old.”

                “Her name is Ginevra Rose. We call her Rosie,” Hermione grinned. “We wanted her named after Ginny, of course, but we couldn’t find a good way to make it her middle name, so she’s got two first names.”

                “Congratulations, guys. You better send me a picture of her,” Jem warned warmly, if a bit sadly. His cheeks were slightly flushed and he looked a little like he was taking a walk down memory lane. Hermione sucked in a breath, looking apologetic.

                “I’m so sorry, Harry, I didn’t think—”

                “You’re fine, ‘Mione,” Jem looked at her fondly. “I just—Ginny told me once that she wanted to name our daughter Lily Hermione, two first names. I always forget how alike you and Ginny were.”

                Hermione gave a watery smile. “You would’ve been a great dad, Jem.”

                When he got the first batch of cupcakes in the oven, Jem came over with a pitcher of cider and some mugs. With a flick of his wand, a new armchair popped up next to Dean’s, and he sank into it.

                The silence drew on between them, but none of the trio seemed to mind it. Dean looked at them all, noting the familiarity that they seemed to share, how Jem’s shoulders weren’t quite as tense as they usually were. He noted that Hermione poured the cider for Jem, and turned his mug so that the handle would be pointed to his left hand, even though Jem was right-handed. He saw how Ron wouldn’t pour himself another glass until Jem nudged the pitcher toward him.

                Sixteen years, Ron had said. Dean wondered if he and Sam had ever had this sort of familiarity, and he doubted that he would have been able to tell even if Sam were still here. It seemed like something only an outsider could see.

                “So—,” Dean cleared his throat, when the silence got to be too much. The trio looked up at him, wearing almost identical masks of curiosity. “—you guys had a war. Is that how you met, or—?”

                “No,” Jem nodded at Ron. “We met on the train ride to our boarding school when we were eleven. We didn’t like Hermione at first because she was bossy.”

                “Still is,” Ron pointed out.

                “Right you are, Ron, but now we enjoy her bossiness.”

                “Off your rocker, mate,” Ron laughed.

                “Anyways, we didn’t become friends with her until October the same year. The war lasted from 1970 to early 1998, but there was a relative down period in the middle, around 1981 to 1994.”

                Dean quickly did the math, narrowing his eyes, and then cursed mentally. He’d known Jem would have had to be young to participate in a war eight years ago, but he was only _fourteen_ when the down period ended.

                “And you—what?—fought from then on?” Dean wondered.

                Jem nodded again, slower this time, his eyes cloudier. “We—I—was in the center of the war for a lot of reasons. The Wizarding World thought I was the only one who could end the war, so they made me a martyr, so to speak. Hermione and Ron stuck by me through it all, up until I ended it—with their help—on May 2, 1998.”

                “It was a long, bloody war,” Hermione added, circling her pinky around the edge of her cup. “A lot of intricacies. I was born to two muggle parents,” she told him, looking directly at him. “Then thrown into this magical world because, by some fluke, I had gotten magic myself. It was—hard to swallow, sometimes, that Wizards were willing to kill other Wizards based on stupid things like their blood, or their loyalties.”

                “Dark Wizards don’t like Muggleborns,” Jem told Dean. “When someone is born two two muggles, that’s what they’re considered. Most Dark Wizards are Pureblood, or Wizards who have two Wizard parents who have two Wizard parents each and so on back as far as it goes. Some are Half-Blood, or Wizards who’ve got muggle blood in their recent generations, but who agree with the eradication of muggles and muggleborn.”

                “What are you?” Dean wondered at Ron and Jem.

                “I’m Half, he’s Pure,” Jem said. “But Ron’s considered a Blood-Traitor, which is a Pureblood who doesn’t believe in the ideals that most Purebloods believe in.”

                “So—,” Dean squinted at his mug. “Why _don’t_ Dark Wizards like muggles?”

                “They just believe that muggles are inferior to Wizards,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “In some cases, it’s true. But in some cases, Wizards are the inferior ones. For example, we’ve got really good medicine, which can regrow bones or heal them in less than twenty-four hours, but most Wizards don’t have electricity. We don’t have much technology, like cell phones or laptops, because we usually live in communities of other magic-users, and when there’s a lot of magic around, technology tends to go haywire and explode.”

                “It’s just all prejudice,” Jem added. “Like—slavery. White people enslaved black people because they were different. Some Wizards hate muggles for the same reason.”

                Hermione shot him a look. “It’s not all black and white, of course. Some Dark Wizards don’t like muggles because, when our secret first came out way back when, muggles tried to capture us and burn us at the stake. Very few, if any, of us were killed that way, but quite a few of us were killed by the first Hunters, who got very good at it.”

                Cas had told Dean that there had been a lot of casualties when the secret came out the first time. Why Dean’s mind didn’t automatically go to the witch hunt was beyond him, but it made sense.

                “Well, I apologize on their behalf,” Dean frowned. “I know it doesn’t make it better, but you still deserve one.”

                “Thanks,” Hermione laughed. Then she stretched, looking at the clock on the wall. “I think Ron and I had better head home, Harry—sorry—Jem. We have Molly watching Rosie, but we really shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

                “Come visit, yeah?” Jem asked, eyes bright.

                “Are you kidding? You can’t keep us away now,” Ron laughed. They both hugged and kissed Jem, then disappeared.

 

                Jem was back to working on his sweets. Dean watched him, something icy hot wriggling around in his gut, like he was a schoolgirl with her first crush. He didn’t want to interrupt Jem, he just wanted to continue watching him forever.

                But he had commitments, responsibilities. As soon as he was done here he had to call Bobby. Then he was on to the next big thing, and…maybe, trying to find a way out of the Cage for Adam and Sam.

                “Jem,” Dean spoke up, finally, when the first batch of cupcakes had cooled enough to be frosted.

                “Finally,” Jem said, not looking up, but tilted his head to listen.

                “There’s one thing I don’t understand.”

                “Shoot,” Jem responded.

                “You saved all of those people, gave them hope back after the war. You’re a hero. Why wouldn’t they leave you be?”

                Jem sighed heavily, shoulders raising and falling. Dean admired the smooth movement as Jem set down his equipment, checking the oven and then coming to sit across from Dean again.

                Dean was unsure if Jem was going to speak. The boy—man—just drew his knees up onto the chair and looked at his hands.

                Then, after a moment, he sighed again.

                “The thing is, Dean…there are three types of heroes. There are True Heroes, the ones who could be heroes, maybe, but they don’t stand out enough—even though they do good things—to be noticed. They don’t have ulterior motives because they can’t, because nobody’s watching them anyways. There are Fake Heroes, the ones who only do good things for the attention they receive in return. And then there are Theoretical Heroes.”

                Dean shifted, looking at Jem with a sort of fondness.

                “They’re the ones who do good things because they have to,” Jem said, quietly. “They save people because that’s the only option, or because the other options are too terrible to consider, or because they feel some—idiotic sense of self-imposed _obligation_ to do so. Not because it’s the right thing to do.”

                _I think I love you,_ Dean thought, wide-eyed as he stared at the desperate younger man. _Which I say to a lot of people but someday that might actually be true for you._

                What he said was: “But that’s okay, Jem. You and me, we can be Theoretical Heroes together.”

                And Jem smiled, and for the whole world, Dean didn’t know he could feel the way he did.

 

                “Listen,” Dean sighed, sometime later. Jem was working on some little strawberry tarts, pinching the dough closed around the strawberry filling.

                “I’m always listening,” Jem tutted.

                “I have to go,” Dean said. “I…have a lot of things that I have to do.”

                “Idiotic, self-imposed obligations,” Jem reminded him, smiling lightly.

                “But if I didn’t do them, I wouldn’t be me,” Dean offered, grinning a little half-grin back. “But…I wanted to ask if it would be okay for me to come back here. You know, whenever.”

                Jem looked up, surprised, and then wiped his hand across his face. There was a streak of flour left behind. He turned, washing his hands, and came out around to examine the front of the display case.

                “I don’t know what, exactly, you’re asking me,” Jem said, when he’d taken stock of what was left to make. It was nearing noon now, but it felt more like eight o’clock at night.

                Dean stood, moving quietly to stand behind Jem. When the boy turned, Dean swiped a finger across his cheekbone, getting the flour off. Jem’s eyes fluttered closed and he sighed.

                “I’m asking if you’ll wait for me,” Dean whispered. “Neither of us are ready for a relationship, Jem. I think you and I both know that. But in time…”

                “Yes,” Jem nodded, blinking his eyes open. He stared up at Dean, eight inches taller than himself. “Yes.”

                And Dean kissed him. It was soft, chaste, but it was a kiss. Dean’s first ever with a man. Jem’s as well.

                Theoretical Heroes or not, could-have-beens aside, Dean left that night. And, for the first time, he looked in his rear-view mirror and knew that he’d be coming back someday.

_finis._


End file.
